Play The Game
by bohemian-rhapsodi
Summary: DI Alex Drake decides to get some profit out of her situation, to the amazement of her colleagues. Amusing one-shot!


Luigi's was under a hush of anticipation as the CID table listened intently to the radio.

"_...going for it! Black to the goals! Black shoots- and a spectacular save from Westley, simply suberb! Still two-nil to Brighton and Hove Albion, with five minutes remaining..."_

"Come on, Manchester." Ray muttered into his beer, eyes squeezed shut as if he could force the game around by sheer force of will. The other men looked similarly stressed, and even the Guv was unusually tense in his Manchester City colours.

The only person on the table without sweat on their brow was DI Alex Drake, who was languishing in utter relaxation against the mural wall. She took the occasional sip of her red wine and smiled on occasion at the actions of her colleagues.

Gene noted this nonchalance with annoyance. "Come on, Bolly, get in the spirit! Our team is on the ropes 'ere, and you're sitting there like a bloody meditating Hindu!"

Alex smiled- that little smug smile that Gene wanted to simultaneously wipe off her face, and find out the secret thoughts behind it. "I'm not concerned, Gene, because Manchester will pull off a last minute three-goals in an upset that will go down in history as the best Grand Final comeback of the century."

"There's optimism, Bolly, then there's plain stupidity." He groaned as Manchester missed yet another chance to score.

"I have ten quid on this game!" Chris bemoaned. The whole team had been down to bet for Manchester, in varying degrees.

"That's nothing Chris, I have fifty." Ray said glumly.

"Luckily for me, I restrained myself to ten pounds." Gene grunted. "What about you, Bolly? You were placing your bet after me."

"Three." She said evasively.

"Three pounds?" Ray snorted. "That's not a real bet."

"Not three pounds, Ray-"

"What? Three _hundred_?" Chris gaped. "We know you're confident, ma'am, but that's just..."

Alex laughed. "Not even three hundred, Chris."

There was a sudden stunned silence, punctuated by the screams of the crowd on the radio.

"_And Manchester slips one past the Seagulls Keeper, fantastic work from Eagleton!"_

"We scored- doesn't that deserve a cheer?" Alex said faintly, trying to deflect their stares of disbelief.

"_Don't_ tell me, DI Drake, that you placed- _three- thousand- pounds-_ on this game." Gene said slowly yet menacingly.

Shaz piped up from her corner, where she had been silent for most of the evening. "They almost wouldn't accept it, Guv, at the betting place- I saw her arguing with them and all."

"_Three thousand pounds_?" Chris croaked.

"Relax." Alex snapped, turning her attention back to the radio. "There's still four minutes to go, only two goals to win-"

"Bloody Mary." Ray winced. "You're cracked, Drake! No one bets like that!"

"_And would you believe it, a penalty for Manchester! Can they sink this one for the equaliser?"_

All attention was suddenly back on the broadcast, with only a few nervous glances at their crazy boss.

Alex merely smiled. How often had her good-for-nothing husband recounted the famous final of '83? The match that gave conclusive proof that Manchester was a team worthy of endorsement from the Gods themselves? More times than she cared the mention, to be honest; it was his best party anecdote. She'd put her savings on the game for the heck of it, really; she didn't need the money that much, but if she was going to enjoy her subconscious life, she was going to do it in style.

They'd got the penalty goal; 2-2.

One minute to go.

They were all screaming at the radio now- Ray was red faced, almost as red as the wine spilt on the table. Their forwards had possession... they got past the first line of defence... _coming up to the final quarter..._

"_SCORE! GOAL FOR MANCHESTER CITY, IN THE DYING MINUTES! NEVER BEFORE HAVE I SEEN A FINAL LIKE THIS, SPECTACULAR WORK FROM THE NORTHERNERS!"_

The restaurant went wild, and poor Luigi had a hard time saving his furniture from their ecstasy.

It died down into drunken renditions of the Manchester team songs and chants, Chris conducting them with wide swoops of his arms that upset several vases and one candle. Crisis was averted by Gene, who seemed to be the only one besides Alex not completely drunk.

"Why'd you do it, Alex?" He asked her half-seriously. "Bloody big risk, and all."

She thought about lying. Saying that it was a bluff, a massive gamble from a DI he already believed to be halfway to the loony house anyway. Then again, her _real_ answer would firmly place her in league with those already in strait-jackets.

She leaned over and whispered the answer into his ear. "I cheated."

Maybe one day he would realise, or she would tell him the truth- but until then, DI Alex Drake was one (crazy) lucky bird in the eyes of her colleagues.


End file.
